1
OREN
My shoulder aches as I climb down from the bed of my truck. I'm old enough to know better, but I can't seem to stop pushing myself every day at work. Hiking the Ridge, identifying the trees that need to be cleared, and swinging the axe to take them down. Day in, day out. I'm starting to feel the effects more than ever before.
My tool belt swings from my forearm and I wince as I heft the axe out of the bed. I'm tired. I'm not so stubborn that I can't admit that to myself. But that doesn't mean I won't be back out there tomorrow. I won't be able to help myself. The work keeps me busy, and distracts my mind from the thoughts I don't dare focus on.
Thoughts of why I cam here in the first place.
Those are probably why I miss the shadow on my porch at first. Why I automatically try to reach for the weapon I no longer carry. Why I have to take one deep breath, then another, and finally a third, before I can remember that there are no enemies lying in wait for me up on this mountain.
"What are you doing here?"
The figure jumps and I hear a shocked, feminine gasp at my barked question. A woman. My heart thuds, still prepared for an imminent threat, even as I run through all the phrases I've been told to practice.
"I'm safe."
"The war is over."
"There's no one trying to kill you."
A small figure appears, shoulders cowed, and chin tucked down protectively against her chest. In the fading sunlight, honey gold highlights in her dark hair gleam, almost like a halo, and I hate the fear I see when her eyes lift up, finally meeting mine.
Damn, beautiful eyes. Full of worry, uncertainty. And even a little fear.
Fear of me.
"I'm sorry." Her voice shakes, just a hint, and my chest goes tight at the sound. Especially when sets her shoulders back, rallies her courage and says, voice steadier, "I was told you could help me."
The weight of responsibility settles over me, making me feel even worse. She came here to ask for help and my instant reaction was to treat her like an enemy combatant waiting to ambush me.
"Give me a minute while I drop my tools off in the back. Then we can talk about why you're here." I walk past her, trying to act like I don't notice that she's just tall enough to fit right under my arm. I can easily imagine her head resting against my chest. And that's a problem. Because I don't get involved. I don't fall for sad, beautiful women with lonely eyes.
When I open the door to my workshop and stride inside, I hear the scuff of step behind me and have to brace myself not to spin around.
"I know you don't mean to cause problems, sweetheart, but following a guy into his dark workshop in the woods isn't a safe bet." I hang up my belt on the wall. "Especially when that guy has all kinds of sharp weapons within easy reach."
"My Grandma wouldn't have given me your name if you were a serial killer."She makes a sound, something that sounds like an attempt at a laugh, but could also be a sob. "At least, I'm pretty sure she wouldn't."
"I'm not usually the one grandmas recommend. Unless you've got a tree that needs to be cut down or maybe a bear problem, I suppose."
I turn around and lean back against the workbench, crossing my arms over my chest and drinking in the sight of the woman standing there. Watching as her eyes search the space, wondering if she's still frightened and just trying to put on a brave face.
"What's that?" She points to the corner, and I smile.
"It's my forge." I shrug when her gaze returns to me. "It's a hobby. It started out as a way to fix things that needed fixing. The more I did, the more I enjoyed it. Now I even make things other people need sometimes. It's cathartic."
She nods, and I can see she's thinking again.
"How about we start with your name? And what you need help with?" My voice still sounds rough, but at least I'm talking.
"I'm Ayla. Margery Monroe is ... was my grandmother."
2
AYLA
His stern lips soften as he hears that my Grandma has passed. His gaze searches mine and then drops to the floor of his workshop.